Alexander Mccall Smith - Isabel Dalhousie 05 (9 page)

“It's better with biscuits,” said Isabel, reaching for a packet of water biscuits off the shelf behind her. “Take these too.”

He took the biscuits and stuffed them into the pocket of his coat.

“Thank you,” he said, and turned to leave the shop.

Eddie glared at Isabel. ”Cat wouldn't like that,” he said.

Isabel remained cool. In the past she had hoped that Eddie would become more assertive, but she had not imagined that he would assert himself against her. “Oh yes?”

“Yes,” said Eddie. “You can't give food away to just anybody who comes in and asks for it. This is a shop, you know.”

Isabel raised an eyebrow. She wanted to say: This is my business, and nothing to do with you. But it was not in her to be abrupt to Eddie; not to this injured boy. “How much should I put in the till?” she asked calmly. “Five pounds?”

Eddie turned away. Isabel could sense the anger in his voice. “I don't care. It's up to you.”

She quickly forgot about the cheese incident, but it appeared that Eddie did not. Halfway through the afternoon, Isabel suggested that he take a break; trade was light, and she could watch the counter. No, he said, he did not need a break.

“You're still cross with me?”

Silence.

She waited, but there was no response. “Look, Eddie, I'm sorry. I know it was wrong of me. You have to work here all the time and you obviously can't have people coming in and asking for free food.”

He glared at her. “No.”

Isabel tried to explain. At least he had said something, even if it was only
no.
And sometimes the word
no
is all that one will get, as at the famous occasion on which Proust and James Joyce had been brought together, and all that Proust had said was
non.
“I shouldn't have done what I did,” she said. “I acted on impulse. You know how sometimes you do things without thinking much about the implications of what you do.”

“Yes.”

She persevered. “So now I'm saying sorry to you. I'm apologising. And…” She tried to look him in the eye, but his gaze slipped away, as it often did. “And I really think that you should accept my apology.”

A customer pushed open the door and made her way over to the pasta shelves.

“Eddie?”

“All right. I accept your apology.”

“Thank you.” Isabel dusted her hands on her apron. Another impulse seized her. “And why don't you come and have supper with Jamie and me this evening? Nothing grand. Kitchen supper.”

At first he did not know how to respond to this suggestion. She saw him hesitating, and she pressed home the invitation. “Come on, Eddie. We've known one another a long time and you've never been round to the house. Not once. You like Jamie, don't you?”

“Jamie? I like him.”

“Well then, say yes.”

“All right. I'll come.” He paused. “And thanks. Thank you for inviting me.”

         

ISABEL SLIGHTLY REGRETTED
the invitation, not because she did not want to entertain Eddie, but because it meant that she would lose an evening that she had mentally earmarked for work. There were still four weeks before she would need to send the next issue of the
Review
off to the printers, but she knew from past experience how quickly those weeks could pass. What she wanted to avoid was a frantic last few days during which she would have to deal with matters that could have been sorted out well in advance. But today could be written off—a day devoted to Cat's interests, and Eddie surely came into that category.

Jamie was in the house when she got home. He had arrived at four and had taken over Charlie duties from Grace, though not without a battle, it seemed.

“She was very unwilling to go,” he complained to Isabel. “She more or less implied that I was being disruptive.”

Isabel grimaced. “You're only his father, after all.”

Jamie smiled. He did not bear grudges. “That's more or less what I said. Anyway, Charlie and I have been having a great time.” He pointed to a clutter of toy vehicles on the floor: a fire engine, a tractor. “He's going to be a mechanic, I think. Or an engineer.”

Charlie started to crawl away, and Isabel intercepted him. “Not a musician?”

“Who would be a musician?” Jamie said, beginning to pick up the toys. “Years of practising. Awful hours. No money…”

Isabel was cuddling Charlie. “But you do what you love doing,” she said over her shoulder. “How many people can say that?”

“Quite a few, I suspect,” said Jamie. “Most doctors like doctoring, don't they? And most lawyers like arguing—or at least the ones I know do. And you hear about pilots saying that they get a real high from being up there above the clouds. And you…”

He placed the toys in a large, open hamper filled with Charlie's things—soft animals, a teddy in a kilt, building blocks in primary colours; a world of shapes, surfaces, textures. Then he stood up. Charlie was nestling into the nape of her neck, his back turned to his father, his mother's arms about him. Jamie stepped forward; his face was close to Isabel's and she looked at him in surprise. He kissed her suddenly, with an urgent passion. “I love you very much,” he said.

Her pleasure showed. “Well, thank you, and I love you too.”

“Let's go away,” he said. “You, me. Charlie. Let's just go away.”

His eyes were locked into hers. She bent forward again and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Where?” she asked. “Go where?”

It was as if he had expected her to say no and was excited to find her saying yes. “Anywhere you like,” he said. “Somewhere in the west. Ireland even.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

She moved away. Charlie was becoming heavy. “We can't. There's the delicatessen. Remember? And you're busy this week, aren't you? I thought you said that you had the Scottish Chamber Orchestra.”

“We've both got things,” he said. “But Charlie's free.”

Isabel laughed. “They get social diaries at a very early age these days,” she said. “I was reading about some mothers in a fashionable part of London who keep social diaries for their children. The kids have dinner parties. Dancing lessons. And so on.”

“I want Charlie to learn Scottish country dancing,” said Jamie. “He's almost old enough. Once he can walk properly.”

They both laughed. Then Isabel looked at her watch. “We'll have to get Charlie settled in good time,” she said. “Eddie's coming for dinner.”

Jamie took Charlie from her. The little boy held on to her blouse, reluctant to let go. She laid a hand gently over his tightened fist; the tension went out of it and his fingers opened.

“Bath time,” said Jamie. “Why do you think they love bath time so much?”

“It's a return to the womb,” said Isabel. “It's how we felt once and how we want to feel again.”

She had not thought about it, but it sounded right, and was probably true. The living of our lives involved loss; loss at every point. Perhaps Charlie really did remember the comfort of the womb; it was not all that long ago, in his case. And what did she want to recover? Did she want her mother back, her sainted American mother? Or her father? Or the feeling of freedom and excitement she had experienced when first she went to Cambridge?

She looked at Jamie as he left the room, heading upstairs to the bath that he would run for Charlie. There would come a time, no doubt, when she would think back to these moments and regret them; not in the sense of wishing they had never been, but regret them in the sense of wishing them back into existence.

She followed Jamie upstairs. A line came to her, a snatch of poetry: John Betjeman, of all people, a snuffly romantic, who could write about love, though, with heart-stopping effect. There had been his Irish Unionist's farewell to the woman he loved; Irish Unionists, she thought, have not had their fair share of poetry—all the best lines were claimed by the republican-minded Irish. But Irish Unionists fell in love and suffered for love in the same way as everybody else did, and could feel that they were in danger of drowning in love, as anybody could, and as she felt now.

CHAPTER EIGHT

E
DDIE SEEMED
a different person. The blue jeans had been replaced with black ones—formal wear, thought Isabel, wryly—and the tee-shirt had yielded to a roll-top sweater in the green that Isabel's father had always described as British Racing. His face looked scrubbed, his hair combed and damp, as if freshly sprinkled with water.

“You're looking very smart, Eddie,” she said as she let him in the front door.

The compliment pleased him. He had looked uncertain when she had opened the door; now he smiled.

“I saw a fox, you know,” he said as he stepped into the hall. “Right outside. On the path. That far away from me. Just that far.”

“Brother Fox,” said Isabel. “He lives somewhere around here. We are in his territory. Did he look at you?”

Eddie nodded. “He didn't seem frightened. He looked at me like this.” And here he made a face, narrowing his eyes. How like Brother Fox he looks, thought Isabel.

“He watches us,” said Isabel. “And he keeps other, less friendly foxes away.” She paused. “Sometimes I wish I could introduce him to the Duke of Buccleuch. He has a fox hunt, you know, down in the Borders. They need to talk.”

Eddie looked at Isabel in puzzlement; she said some very strange things, he thought. And her house…he looked about in awe.

“You've got a big place,” he said.

She thought of Eddie's circumstances. Cat had said something once about where he lived; he was still with his parents somewhere, she believed, somewhere down off Leith Walk. Eddie's parents were elderly, she now remembered; he had been something of an afterthought.

“It's just a house,” she said.

He looked at her, as if expecting her to say something more.

“I mean, I'm used to it,” she went on. “I suppose it's too large for me, but I'm just used to it. I don't think of it as being big.” She sounded foolish; she should have said nothing. Those who live in big houses, she thought, should not apologise; it only makes matters worse.

“I wouldn't know what to do in a place like this,” said Eddie. “I'd get lost.”

“Well, maybe.” She touched Eddie's arm lightly. “Charlie would like to see you, I think. He's just had his bath. Jamie's with him.”

She led him upstairs. Eddie glanced at the paintings on the stairs and on the landing. “Are these all…all real?”

She smiled. “Yes, they're real. If you mean are they actual paintings. Real paint. Not prints.”

“That's what I meant.”

They were standing in front of a Peploe landscape. In the background she heard Charlie gurgling as Jamie uttered some nonsensical mantra. Eddie reached out as if to touch the painting, but checked himself.

“You can touch it if you like,” said Isabel. “It's quite dry now.”

“Why are the hills blue like that?” asked Eddie.

She thought: Yes, that is a reasonable question to ask of the colourists, who saw the world in strong colours. Mull, and its hills, were blue; seen from the blue shores of Iona. “Because hills are often blue. Look at them. It's the effect of the light.”

Eddie looked more closely at the picture. “Is this worth a lot of money?” he asked.

Isabel was momentarily taken aback. But she quickly recovered. She would have to be honest. “Yes, anything by Peploe is quite expensive these days. He's a very highly sought-after artist. That's what determines the price. Like Picasso. There's nothing very special in a Picasso drawing, say, but it will still cost an awful lot of money.”

“How much?” asked Eddie.

“Picasso? Oh, well a drawing—a few lines dashed off on a sheet of paper—might be ten thousand pounds.”

“No, not that. This painting here. This Pep…Peploe.”

Isabel laughed, as much to cover her embarrassment as for any other reason. “I don't think you should ask questions like that, Eddie. People don't…don't expect to be asked what things cost.”

She spoke gently, but her words silenced him. He looked down at the floor, and she immediately regretted what she had said.

She felt that she needed to explain. “Sorry, Eddie. You can ask me; of course you can ask me. It's just that…well, you wouldn't normally ask somebody else, somebody whom you didn't really know.”

He bit his lip.

“I'll tell you, if you like. Of course I'll tell you. Although…” What would be the effect of his knowing? Envy? “I didn't buy that painting; it belonged to my father. And he didn't pay a great deal for it. Not in those days.”

He was still looking at the floor. She reached out and held his arm. “All right. If that went into an auction now, it would fetch more than one hundred thousand pounds. That's what somebody told me, anyway.”

He looked up sharply. The offence that he had taken at her mild censure was now replaced by astonishment. “You could sell it for that? For more than a hundred thousand?”

She explained that she did not want to sell it.

“Why not? Think what you could do with a hundred thousand pounds.”

“Frankly, I can't think of anything I'd spend it on. What do I need? I don't want a new car. I've got a house. I'm lucky. I don't need a hundred thousand pounds.”

She spoke freely, but as the words came out, again she felt that she was making a mistake. She did not need anything, but he did. He had no car, she assumed; and he certainly did not own a flat. I'm making it worse, she thought. But no, Eddie had not taken it in that way at all; he was thinking of something else. “So is that why you gave that man the cheese this afternoon? Because you don't need to worry about money?”

She thought about this. He was probably right. If you had enough, you were more likely to be liberal to others; except, of course, as was always the case, for some. “Possibly,” she said.

“And what if I came to you and said, ‘Isabel, please give me five hundred pounds.' What if I said that? Would you?”

She studied his expression, trying to work out whether he was asking for money. She decided that he was not.

“I'd give it to you. But I'd probably ask you first why you needed it. If you were in trouble, of course I'd give it to you.”

“Not lend it?”

“No. I'd give it.”

She watched him. His mouth twitched slightly; just slightly, at the edges of the lips. “Eddie? Do you need five hundred pounds? Is that what you're telling me?”

She saw the pupils of his eyes; dark dots, but with light in them. She noticed that he had a mole, a tiny mole, just below his ear. Otherwise, he was perfect.

His lips parted, a tiny bit of spittle. He mouthed the word
yes.

She whispered, as she did not want Jamie to hear, and she suddenly knew that Jamie was listening from Charlie's room, through the open door.

“Are you in trouble, Eddie?”

He said nothing, but his head moved slightly: a nod.

“And will you tell me what it is?”

Again a movement of the head, this time a shaking.

She made up her mind. Five hundred pounds was very little to her and would obviously make a big difference to Eddie in his difficulties, whatever they were. A fine? She thought that unlikely. Eddie was too timid to get into trouble with the law. Drugs? Debts to a pusher? There was no sign that he used anything, and she thought it unlikely; Cat had told her that he had expressed strong views against drugs some months before. So what did that leave?

She leaned forward. “Will you need more? If I give you five hundred pounds, will you come back and ask for more?”

He began to look indignant, but then stopped himself. “No,” he said quietly. “That's all I need.”

She made her mind up. “All right. We can get the money from the bank tomorrow.”

She did not expect effusive thanks, and did not get them. But there was a whispered
thank you
as they went into Charlie's room. Jamie was standing there, holding Charlie in his sleeper suit. He glanced at Eddie and nodded; then looked at Isabel. She let nothing pass between them, no acknowledgement of what had happened on the landing. It's between Eddie and me, she thought. Private business. Eddie had told her not to give cheese away; would Jamie tell her not to give away money? It's mine, she thought—although the cheese, strictly speaking, was not.

Charlie saw Eddie and gave a welcoming gurgle.

“He likes you,” said Jamie.

“Babies do,” said Eddie. “My mum says…” He trailed off.

“She says what?” asked Isabel.

“She says they go by smell,” said Eddie.

Isabel took Charlie out of Jamie's arms and passed him over to Eddie. “Jamie smells good,” she said. “And I'm sure you do as well. Here.”

Eddie recoiled at first, in fright, but checked himself. He was awkward, uncertain precisely where to place his arms, but Charlie helped by latching on to his sweater.

“Support him,” said Isabel, taking hold of Eddie's right forearm. Bony. Was he eating properly? If he lived with his parents, then surely his mother should watch out for that. Or Cat should. She was his employer; she should notice these things. And there was no shortage of food in a delicatessen.

“You're nice and thin, Eddie,” she said, patting the arm she had briefly held.

“That's because he walks everywhere,” Jamie chipped in. “You do, don't you, Eddie?”

Eddie nodded. “It's quicker,” he said.

“But you don't want to be too thin,” said Isabel.

Jamie reached forward to tickle Charlie under the chin. “What do they say? You can never be too thin, nor too rich.”

“Isabel's too rich,” said Eddie. “She just said so.”

There was a silence, and Charlie, surprised, looked over Eddie's shoulder at the people standing around him: there had been gurgles, he thought, those sounds that they made, and now nothing.

Yet the dinner went well, at least until just before the end. Eddie was relaxed, and Isabel could tell that he enjoyed Jamie's company. From the other side of the table, he looked at Jamie with a bright-eyed admiration, she thought, and this made her smile; many people looked at Jamie that way, and yet he did not appear to notice, or, if he was aware of it, did not think anything of it.
The blessed will not care what angle they are regarded from, having nothing to hide:
the line from “In Praise of Limestone” came to her unbidden—WHA again! But it was so apt.

They ate salmon terrine, followed by a risotto, from a recipe which Isabel had taken from Mary Contini's book, and then grapes. Jamie wanted coffee, but Isabel and Eddie did not; so Isabel made a small espresso for Jamie, and while she was doing this, the two of them at the table and she at the worktop, Eddie said: “I can hypnotise people now.”

Jamie looked at him oddly, like an older brother looking at a younger sibling who has made a bragging claim. “Oh yes? Since when?”

“Since a week ago,” said Eddie. “Officially. I got my certificate then. My Part One certificate. I still have to do Part Two and Part Three.”

Jamie appeared puzzled, and Eddie explained about his course. “It's hard work,” he said. “Quite a few people dropped out.”

“Well done, Eddie,” said Isabel. “You must be pleased—”

“Hypnotise me, then,” Jamie interjected.

Eddie looked at him anxiously. “You serious?”

Jamie glanced at Isabel. She wanted to shake her head, to say no, but could not; she was careful about telling him what he could or could not do. She was not his mother. He turned back to Eddie. “Yes, why not? It would be interesting, don't you think, Isabel?”

“It's not a game,” said Eddie.

Isabel was concerned. She did not want Jamie to be hypnotised. She did not want anybody to be hypnotised in her kitchen. She would change the subject. “Of course it's not. Not like one of those games you play after dinner. You know, the six degrees of separation game. Things like that. Can you get to the pope through five friends?”

“Two,” said Jamie. “In my case.”

Eddie looked blank.

“Right,” said Jamie. “I know the cardinal, the one who lives over at Church Hill, in that house with the green copper dome. He must know the pope. Two degrees of separation from me to the pope.”

Isabel wanted to encourage this new line of discussion. “So you're three degrees away from the pope, Eddie. You know Jamie. Jamie knows the cardinal. The cardinal knows the pope. Three degrees.”

“And the president of Bulgaria?” suggested Jamie.

Isabel frowned. “I suspect that he has a lot of friends,” she said. “So I suspect that we'd get there within six links.”

“He has a lot of friends?” asked Eddie. “How do you know?”

Isabel shrugged her shoulders. Eddie could be very literal. “In order to become president of anywhere, even Bulgaria, you have to have friends. You have to know lots of people and cultivate them. He'll be a networker, the president of Bulgaria. A big networker.”